nick

In the year of our lord 2006 an epic tale of seafaring and sailing, of love and war, of loss and renewal took Europe by storm, like a nor’easter gale enveloping a schooner. The book We, the Drowned , an impossible debut by Danish author Carsten Jensen was translated into English last year and despite benefitting from some incredibly positive reviews, has largely flown under the radar. But let me impart a bit of wisdom if I may. Do not sleep on this novel.

One of the primary reasons I enjoy reading fiction that comes out of small publishing houses is the pretense. Rather, lack thereof. The goals, the mission is clear. These writers aren’t deluded. They took their college writing workshop classes Formalism and Fiction, Function of Prose, they graduated from places like the Iowa Writer’s Workshop, and they’ve studied under famous writers, instructed on how to write the Great American Novel. The thing is, they’re not buying it. They have seen writers try and fail at that lofty mission and they decided it’s not for them.

I’m a sucker for a good debut . Truth be told, great debuts confound me. They seem like things that really shouldn’t exist, a thing that defies logic and physics; something that should be placed on Stephen Hawking’s desk for him to investigate and extrapolate. Something like antimatter. Or William Shatner’s secret at defying the ageing process.

When you read Sunset Park by Paul Auster you get the sense of an older New York as described by an old guard New Yorker. New York before Harlem and Brooklyn gentrification, when struggling writers chatted with prodding editors over knishes at deli countertops. When the Dodgers played in Brooklyn and stats were catalogued in steel trap minds rather than fantasy league spreadsheets.